


It's not gay if aliens made you do it.

by nasal



Series: The friends we banged along the way [1]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Aliens Made Them Do It, Anal Sex, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Temple of Procreation (Red vs. Blue), Trapped In A Closet, i'm disappointing my parents, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:53:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27059038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nasal/pseuds/nasal
Summary: Tucker is an asshole who didn't consider that maybe not everyone wants to be as horny and desperate as him.
Relationships: Dexter Grif/Dick Simmons
Series: The friends we banged along the way [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2031220
Comments: 25
Kudos: 132





	1. Everyone's mad at Tucker

**Author's Note:**

> When the muse calls, you answer it. So I write porn now apparently 
> 
> FINAL EDIT: now longer and girthier for your reading pleasure

“Something’s wrong.” 

Grif is halfway through his breakfast when Simmons slides next to him, brow furrowed the way it always is when something is bothering him, but he pays him no mind and continues to shovel cereal into his mouth. The civil war is over, it has been for little over a week since that dick Felix fell to his death, and the Reds and Blues went ham on Malcom Hargrove and his merry band of pirates. They’re in that weird period of peacetime where everyone is still on edge, waiting for someone to come in and announce that it was all a big prank. 

He can understand why the people of Chorus are not fully convinced that the conflict is over, they’ve been fighting this shitty war for _ages_. Simmons, on the other hand, should be nowhere near as ansty as he is this morning, bouncing his leg right next to Grif’s and interrupting precious eating time.

“Hey, I’m talking to you, asshole.” Simmons jabs his bony elbow into his gut. “Did you get Kimball’s message?”

“No.” Grif says in between spoonfuls.

“We have an emergency meeting in ten minutes.” He says irritably.

“So?” 

“So,” Simmons is using that tone he always uses when he knows Grif is being an idiot so he’ll leave him alone. Impatience with a hint of barely repressed annoyance. “Stop eating and _let’s go_.”

Another spoonful. “Pass.”

Indignant spluttering is followed by incessant nagging, all of which Grif ignores like the pro he is. Who cares if Kimball wants a meeting? She’s not his _boss_ , he’s not a citizen of Chorus and he technically should have never been in this army, he doesn’t have to answer to her. Any time Kimball wants a meeting it's to give Grif orders, or to yell at him for inevitably fucking up said orders. Out of all the Red and Blue 'captains', she likes him the least and it's no secret that he holds her just slightly above his normal contempt for commanding officers. The only one who’s frothy with eagerness to please an authority figure is Simmons, but what else is new.

 _"C’mon, Grif!"_ Simmons grabs him by the forearm to get him to move, and Grif feels the weight and heat more than he normally would. Something is definitely off today. He had felt it an hour ago in the line when one of the corporals accidentally bumped against him and _blushed meekly_ as she excused herself. The sensation of contact had lingered and settled pleasantly in his stomach in a way he hasn’t experienced in a long time. Too long even, if he is getting the same response from Simmons touching him. 

“Fine.” He says, yanking his arm away and getting up. “You ruined my breakfast anyway.”

\---o0o---

When they arrive, five minutes late no less, Kimball is already yelling so loudly they can hear it through the door. 

“-even _think_ to consider what the people of this planet have gone through-” 

Someone else in the room is trying to interject, Wash maybe? No one’s voice can travel the same way Vanessa Kimball’s can.

“Of all the selfish, idiotic-” 

“I can’t believe you dragged me out of breakfast for this.” Snaps Grif next to him, but Simmons only clicks his tongue in irritation and opens the door to the conference room.

Tense simply did not convey the mood of the room. _Murderous_ would be more appropriate. Kimball looked like she was ready to blow a fuse, which was unsettling because the President was not the type to lose her cool over anything. The Blues must have spectacularly fucked up. 

Or, _one Blue_ has fucked up, going by the way everyone was glaring at Tucker.

Upon seeing them, Kimball clears her throat in and straightens up, expertly regaining her composure.

“Can it be deactivated?” She asks Washington. 

“I don’t know.” Wash replies honestly. Simmons notes how tightly the Freelancer is clenching his jaw, and how rigidly he is standing, how rigidly _everyone_ is standing. “It’s an hour trip back to the Temple, by then I’m not sure how… affected we will all be.”

Tucker pipes up. “I still maintain that it was a good- _yeowch!_ ”

Carolina seizes Tucker by the collarbone and squeezes. “Don’t. Speak.” She looks like she’s one shitty pick-up line away from snapping Tucker like a twig. 

“Will anyone please tell us what’s going?” Ask Simmons.

“Tucker did it.” Caboose mutters absent-mindedly, not looking away from his crayons. 

“Tucker activated the Temple of Procreation.” Wash translates, already sounding exhausted even though it’s still mid morning. 

Sarge goes on, “Apparently, Blue Balls here lied to his commanding officer about a recon mission to one of the alien temples, using the mission to instead instigate a planet-wide orgy!” 

“A _what?!_ ” Dread settles in the pit of Simmons’ stomach, except it’s not cold and heavy like regular panic, but jittery, like he’s drank too much coffee. His breaths get shorter, “Oh god, has it already started?”

Grif scoffs next to him, “Sure, Simmons, this is exactly what an orgy looks like.” Simmons glares back, only Donut would be happy with the dudes to chicks ratio in this room. Where is Donut anyway?

“We don’t know when it’ll start and we’re _wasting time._ ” Carolina growls, “Kimball, we need to get to the temple and shut this down!”

Kimball only sighs, pinching her nose. “Even if we can, somehow I doubt that the only person capable of stopping it will be reluctant to do it.” Everyone turns to Tucker, whose face betrays the fact that he is indeed entirely unwilling to stop whatever terrible thing he has unleashed on this planet.

“Then we’ll just make him.” Carolina threatens back.

“Bow chicka- Ow! Ow! Same team!”

Kimball sits down and brings the communicator online, “We must weather the storm, Agent Carolina, we’ve been through much worse before. Everyone is dismissed, do your best to prepare for the next few days, I’ve got phone calls to make.”

Tucker cheers excitedly, leaping out of the room to get started, but not before Carolina yanks him back by the collar and jabs him in the chest with a finger. “Remind me to kill you after this is over.” 

“Or you can come find me, you know where my room is.” Tucker winks back, but Simmons is pretty sure pick-up lines work best if you don’t run away immediately after you’ve said them.

Behind him, Washington is attempting to explain to Caboose what is going to happen. Telling him to find someone who he is comfortable being with and likes, so they can spend the day together and- no not me, Caboose, _find somebody else._

All of this to distract himself from the situation. Simmons has no idea what he is going to do, what he’s going to feel. He has enough problems talking to girls as it is. What if all the girls he talks to end up laughing at him anyway, even with the weird alien technology addling their brains? He wouldn’t be able to handle that level of rejection, his self-esteem would never recover. 

“Don’t look so constipated Simmons.” Grif says, briefly pausing Simmons' anxiety spiral. “You might actually not die a virgin after all.”

Simmons wants to make a sarcastic quip about how old that joke is getting, but Grif puts his hand on Simmons’ shoulder and it sends jolts down his spine. The temple is already making him sensitive and he needs to get away from _everyone_ before he loses his inhibitions. 

“Oh, and by the way,” Continues Grif, turning his head to face Simmons and he’s _way too close_.

_“Dibs."_


	2. Technology fails humanity once again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Takes a shot of holy water*

Simmons stomps behind Grif, spluttering indignantly. “You can’t call dibs on our room!” He cries.

Grif doesn’t bother looking at Simmons. “Um, pretty sure I can, ‘cause I just did.” He looks bored and his voice drawls like it always does but his brisk pace betrays a sense of urgency. In a few minutes, Kimball will be sending a planet-wide announcement of the temple’s activation, and while the Reds and Blue have a nice head-start, soon everyone is going to start plundering the military base looking for supplies.

And privacy.

Simmons needs the room more than Grif. Grif is a slob who can sleep on any surface and survive on a diet of only soft drinks and snack cakes. For god's sake, he already neglects his personal hygiene, he is perfectly acclimated to the hedonistic environment the temple is going to create, Simmons is _not._

“But where am I supposed to go?” He asks incredulously.

“Not my problem.” Says Grif as they round a corner.

Which is not an acceptable answer. As Grif swipes his keycard to open a small storage closet, Simmons explodes. 

“You- you _cockbite!_ ” he storms in after Grif. “You don’t even care if I’ve nowhere to go!” The temple is amplifying his anger. The tension in his lower belly is fueling this outburst, and he’s so wound up from anticipation of what’s about to happen that he is looking for any type of outlet, even if it’s yelling at Grif.

“Correct, Simmons, I don’t care what you do during the sex frenzy.” Grif snaps back, he sound just as agitated.

“Well maybe I’ll just stay in this closet!” He yells.

Grif snorts, "Sure, stay in the closet, Simmons."

His eye twitches dangerously, but he powers through. “It’s got food, water, blankets- oh, look!” he grabs the small bottle that caught his eye. “It’s even got lube, does your shitty room have lube, Grif? No. Now get the fuck out of _my_ closet.”

"Fine!"

" _Fine!"_

Grif turns for the door and makes a whole spectacle of grabbing his keycard, all the while shooting Simmons the dirtiest glare. He swipes his card. Nothing. He swipes again. No response.

“What the fuck.” _Swipe._ _Nothing. "_ What the fuck?”

“Uh,” Simmons says intelligently. “Grif?”

_Swipe. Nothing._

“No, no, no, _no_ , _no!_ ” 

The keycard isn’t working, it’s not even registering on the door. Oh god, they’re trapped in the closet. Grif’s swiping over and over to no effect, something has caused the security system to malfunction, and now they’re stuck in this tiny closet. _During a alien-tech-induced sex storm._ All the anger from before is subsiding as Simmons' panic levels rise. The closet is really not that big, even though they can probably keep to themselves if they stay at either end, it's still cosy enough to make it impossible to hide, say, the boner the temple is going to give them. Simmons is not there yet, but if the warmth in his core is any indication, the event is _imminent_ , and Grif can't be anywhere near his vicinity when is happens. Grif is screaming in frustration, swiping his useless card futilely, as if doing it for the hundredth time will fix the door.

He turns to Simmons, “There’s no way I can pry it open, I have regular human strength without my armor.” 

“Not even regular human strength, fatass.” Simmons snarks.

“But some of us don't have that problem.” Grif says through gritted teeth. Weird, he's not brushing over the fat jokes like he normally would. He's tense. “Like you.” Simmons blinks. “Damnit, Simmons, _the guy with the bionic arm._ ”

Simmons perks up. “Oh right.” He hears Grif mutter _‘idiot’_ but decides to let it go. 

It’s no use, the door is not budging, even with Simmons’ cybernetic enhancements pushing and pulling at it. The exertion is making him uncomfortably hot. Or is it the temple? With his back turned, he can’t see the way Grif shifts restlessly at every grunt he makes.

He resigns himself to shouting, maybe somebody will still have enough sense to hear them and help them. “Hey! Hey! Can anyone hear me?”

“Hello magic talking door!”

Grif is by his side in an instant. “Holy shit, Caboose, is that you?” They’re pressed shoulder to shoulder and the contact almost _burns_. Simmons shifts to put space between them, but he can still feel the heat coming off Grif.

“Oh my god! The magic door knows my name!” 

“No, dumbass, it’s us.” Grif calls out. “Grif and Simmons.”

“It knows my friends’ names too!”

Simmons speaks up before Grif starts swearing at their only hope of escape. “Yes, Caboose, I am a _magic talking door_." he says mystically. Grif is looking at him like he's cracked, but Simmons knows that with Caboose it's best to explain things _his_ way. "Simmons and Grif are trapped inside me! Can you open me, or find someone who can?”

“YES, I WILL GO FIND YOUR FRIEND, MAGIC DOOR.” Caboose bellows, and then he’s gone.

Grif presses his sweaty forehead on the door, breathing heavily. Simmons slides down to the floor so he doesn’t have to hear it. All they have to do is now hold off until Caboose comes back.

“He’s not coming back, is he.” Grif says after a pause.

Who knows with Caboose, he's fucked up simpler instructions than _open door_ in the past; the man has the attention span of a revolving door even without the added effect of the temple. "Probably not."

Grif groans in frustration and bangs his head against the metal. “I can’t fucking believe this. I can’t believe I’m stuck here with _you_.”

“Hey, up yours asshole, I don’t want you here either.” He’s crawling to the other side of the tiny space to put even more distance between them, because now the rough scrape of Grif’s voice is sending shivers down his spine. He’s so hot, he wants to rip off his clothes and cool his skin on the metal floor, he doesn’t care how dirty it is. But he can’t, he can’t be the first one to lose control, not when his competition is _fucking Grif_. 

“Is there someone you _did_ want here?” 

Simmons looks up to Grif, who is side-eyeing him from the door. “Um, no?” he responds, as if there is a right and wrong answer to that question. He doesn't spend any time thinking about that stuff. He was too busy trying not to die during the war to actively look, and most of the women he's around are in his squad, it didn't feel appropriate. Not like he would be able to talk to any woman with the intention to proposition one anyway. _Hey baby, wanna spend the next few hours clumsily fumbling_ me _, a cyborg virgin? I'm 30% metal, but not where it matters!_ Yeah right. Simmons was planning to sequester himself somewhere private riding this out alone. “You?”

Grif considers it for a moment. “Not really, Volleyball maybe.”

Simmons squawks, “That’s my lieutenant!” 

“So?”

“So have sex with your own lieutenants!” It’s the most logical thing to do, obviously. Have sex that is. Simmons bangs his head against the wall to kill the brain cells responsible for that thought.

Grif makes a face. All of his lieutenants are _greasy dudes_. “Gross, no way. Besides, she fancies you.”

Simmons' brain short-circuits. “What?”

Grif goes back to cooling his head on the metal door. “It’s kinda super obvious? All of your squad has a crush on you, even Jensen. But then she got with _Palomo_ , of all people.” 

It’s still not registering. “What?”

“Maybe it’s infectious, maybe Palomo is in love with you too now.”

“Love?”

“Tsk, _nevermind_. It’s not fun to mess with you if you’re too horny to process it.” 

Simmons is about to retort with just how _not_ -horny he is when something slams into the closet door from the other side. They both open their mouths to yell out but it dies in their throat when they hear a long, deep moan. The planet-wide frenzy must be in full-swing because two people have decided to get it on _as enthusiastically as possible_ against the closet that is keeping Grif and Simmons trapped. The couple on the other side are making every noise Simmons absolutely does not want to hear. Grunting, moaning, mewling accompanied by the rhythmic banging against the door, and _fuck_ if Simmons wasn’t hard before he is certainly is now. 

Simmons is _not_ an exhibitionist, he doesn't get off on other people fucking. It's the temple making him react this way, making him hyper-sensitive to everything, even the stuff that would normally mortify him. The sounds of the couple are like jolts of electricity igniting every nerve of his body and burning away his inhibitions layer by layer. In front of him, Grif braces himself against the door with his hands, visibly shivering, fighting the same losing battle.

“Hey!” Grif cries out raggedly, “Stop that, we’re waiting for Caboose!’” Grif might as well have whispered at them to stop having sex because Simmons is hearing no signs of them stopping, or slowing down. They're too far gone to notice.

Simmons snorts. "Maybe they’ll break down the door.” A very real possibility, with how hard they're going at it. 

“Shut up, Simmons.” Grif growls, and Simmons _fe_ _els_ it more than he hears it.

The couple on the other side have no such restraint, and soon the one up against the door is screaming to go _Harder! Faster! Deeper!_ and the pounding goes from steady to frantic. Simmons is squeezing legs together alleviate himself from it all, and his eyes are glued to Grif, who’s panting like he’s the one having amazing wall-sex, gripping his shirt but refusing his hand to go any lower. Every bang against the door is punctuated by whines and groans, climbing higher in pitch, in volume, in pleasure. Climbing higher and higher _and higher_ _until_ -

The couple crash into an earth-shattering orgasm, screaming to the highest heavens as they succumb to mindless pleasure, seemingly unending. “ _Hah_ …” Simmons can’t contain his own sound, his body is writhing in phantom ecstasy. He’s losing his mind with need and he’s bringing his hands to his head just so he has something to _grab_ -

“ _Grif._ ” He whines without thinking. 

And he doesn’t _care_. He’s reaching out to the other person stuck with him in this room, this planet, this _life_ and all he wants is _release._ He doesn’t care that it’s not his super-hot, volleyball-playing lieutenant but instead his scruffy best friend that has been glued to his side since day fucking one. At the sound of his name uttered so desperately, Grif snaps back to Simmons, looking as wrecked as Simmons feels. In the dimly lit closet, he looks at Grif as if he’s meeting him for the first time, and it’s all different. His pudgy face, the butt of so many jokes, is now endearingly round; his stubble, before unkempt, is now rugged and handsomely so; his eyes are smoldering, his lips look soft. He's staring at a face he's known for years, a face he would admit to being fond of, during weak, sentimental moments, and suddenly finding it _attractive_. He's mesmerized. And so is Grif, who is looking at him in rapt fascination. Simmons briefly wonders what transformation he’s undergoing in his eyes.

His eyes drag south to the tent in Grif pants and he shudders. Like a man possessed he stands up, and takes one, two steps and _slams_ Grif against the door.

Grif’s moan of relief is everything to Simmons. He presses his hips against Grif and hisses at the delicious friction between them, at how perfectly they slot together, and undulates his hips to chase that high he has been denying himself. When Grif grabs his ass to pull him even closer he throws back his head and groans deeply, and now it’s _their_ turn to put on a show from the people on the other side of the door. They rut together at a furious pace, reveling in the pressure of each other, that wonderful _, wonderful_ drag between them. Simmons has a bruising grip on Grif's hips, controlling the urgent tempo of their movements and guiding their groins to that spot that has them both weak at the knees, while Grif babbles endlessly. _It’s good,_ _it’s so good god don’t stop don’t you dare stop-_

“MAGIC DOOR STOP CRYING I FOUND FRECKLES AND SHEILA AND-”

It doesn't even hiccup their momentum. “ _Fuck off, Caboose!”_ They yell in unison.

Simmons doesn't hear the cheery ' _Okay!_ ' on the other side, because Grif is pressing his forehead to his and egging Simmons on with that sweet, desperate voice. He grinds against him harder, until he's pressing Grif completely against the door and coming undone by that delicious friction. Their world is shrinking to just them, in this room, and this mind-melting heat. 

“ _God, Simmons…_ ” 

And that’s all it takes for Simmons’ vision to white-out and he curls around himself, coming harder than he has ever come in his life. Grif is tensing and squeezing him as he cums, engulfed in pleasure so intense that he never wants it to end. He wants to stay in this closet with Grif and feel like this forever. He cups Grif’s face just as Grif grabs him by the back of his neck, and then they are kissing. They’re kissing and melting in the tender sensation of soft lips and heavy breaths. Their bodies haven't stopped moving as they come down from their high, but Grif is becoming boneless, and to stop him from falling Simmons slides his leg between his. _Grif is still hard._ And Simmons isn't getting any softer either. He thrusts forward forcefully and gasps as the pleasure jolts them out of their lethargy. Grif's hands are cupping his ass again and apparently everyone's ready to go for round two, because the temple has decided that this particular party isn't over. Not that Simmons is fighting it, if alien technology is going to remove all his inhibitions, he might as well enjoy himself.

And with that thought, he shoves his hand down Grif's pants.


	3. Just two guys being dudes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 👌👈

In the rare moments of lucidity, Simmons' mind wanders to the temple. He wonders how it's activation can affect humans so accurately when it was a race of aliens with entirely different physiology who built it. How does it _know?_ The temple hasn't just driven him mad with lust, it's affected his biology. Maybe the AI preserved in the ancient structure was advanced enough to recognize human reproduction and simply tweak hormone levels as if to solve a math problem. And boy, is Simmons feeling solved right about now. That familiar tiredness after climax is but a distant memory, and his refractory period has decreased from healthy male in his mid thirties, to teenage boy, to _lock and load, boys! No rest for the wicked!_ And he was already in shape before but his stamina now is practically god-like, just when he thinks he can't possibly go on he finds that extra bit of energy to push him over the edge, rinse and repeat. He doesn't know how much time has passed either, only that he doesn't feel tired, hungry, or thirsty, just horny, horny, and horny. In the space between rounds he feels a twinge of worry about this, but now is not one of those moments, and that makes it a problem for future Simmons.

But Tucker had activated the Temple of _Procreation_ , not the Temple of Messy Rub-Downs, which is why frotting and handjobs eventually became not enough, and why Simmons is now on his back, moaning shamelessly as Grif introduces him to the wonderful world of prostate massages.

"Ah! Right there!" He gasps as Grif curls two fingers inside him. If he had known that sticking stuff up his butt would feel this fantastic he would have been a much less productive member of society, he'd be too busy _doing exactly that._ He totally gets Donut's whole thing now.

Grif's fingers are thick and the stretch is delicious. It took an embarrassingly short amount of time for Simmons to go from skeptical to a writhing, whimpering mess and it's all Grif's fault.

"You're taking me so well, Simmons. You sure you've never done this?" Grif says as he pushes deeper, making Simmons tremble at the praise. They've been swimming in this hazy lust as Grif preps Simmons, it's probably the longest break they have had in between rounds, and the lack of orgasms is dialing up the desperation. As much as he's enjoying it, his body is aching for something more intense than hands.

" _Grif_..." Simmons plants his feet on the ground and arches his back to hump against the fingers inside him. He's ready, _he's ready._ Grif fists his leaking cock to the sounds Simmons makes, enthralled by the sight and sounds below him, but instead of getting the message and fucking Simmons on this dirty closet floor, the bastard adds another finger. Simmons chokes out a sob. It's so close to what he wants. "I hate you, _so much_."

"Shut the fuck up, idiot." Grif snaps back, "There's a right way to do this." And to drive the point, he thrusts forcefully into Simmons.

But Simmons doesn't want to be fingerfucked to within an inch of his life. And he's pretty familiar with Grif's dick by now, three fingers is _overkill_. "I swear to god, Grif, if you don't stop dicking around and fuck me I'll-" 

He never gets to say what he'll do, because Grif, deciding Simmons is too annoying, leans forward and slaps the lubed up hand he's been using to stroke himself right over Simmons' mouth. 

_Nope._ No temple is strong enough to turn that lubbey-hand-over-face feeling into something sexy, Simmons immediately jerks his head to get Grif off him, all of his protests muffled and oh god it's in his mouth, that lube's been touching his dick _why does Grif have to be disgusting every waking moment of his life._ He tries to sit up to rub his own hands all over Grif's face just to see how _he_ likes it but Grif's pushing him back down, albeit with one hand because the other is still knuckle-deep inside Simmons. 

"Hold still and let me- ow! Don't kick me, you fucker!" 

But Simmons is already trying his best to drive his heel into Grif's side again, driven by spite and frustration. It works, because Grif takes his hand off Simmons to intercept his leg, but before Simmons can snap at him, Grif is flipping him over and pinning both his hands above his head. His other hand has a bruising grip on Simmons' hip and he keenly feels the emptiness, but Grif's cock is rubbing against his ass so tantalizingly close to his hole that the angry ' _don't use my face as a hand towel!'_ dies in his throat. "Come _on_ , Grif."

Grif lets up. "Jesus fucking Christ, you're so annoying." And pushes in. 

Simmons' eyes roll to the back of his head as Grif slides past the first ring of muscle. Like a switch being flipped, he feels a powerful wave of warmth engulf him, starting where he and Grif are joined, blooming outwardly to the rest of his body. This is what the temple wanted them to do all along. To have them join together this way, as intimately as two people can, and he can't think of anyone he trusts more to share this experience with. Simmons has given so much of himself to this man. Literally, his left arm, half a leg, most of his internal organs...

"My sweat glands." He mutters without thinking.

"Did you say something? Are you okay?" 

"I'm good, yeah," He doesn't have that much left that Grif can take, but he can take this from Simons too. "You can move."

And when Grif does, it's a timid push but it jolts him so exquisitely. And so does the next one. And the next one. Until all he can do is surrender and let Grif set the pace at which Simmons will lose his mind. He's at Grif's mercy in this position, completely submissive with nothing to do except _take it._ He finds it bothers him a little, that he has no control, he can't touch Grif or even see him.

"Fuck, you're so tight." Grif grunts as he buries his dick to the hilt. 

He arches his back experimentally as Grif fucks into him and the new angle makes Grif slam right into his prostate. The sound Simmons makes is _animal_. Grif swears above him, as Simmons unconsciously tightens around him like a vice, and aims for that spot again. Powerful hands push his lower back down so he's bent perfectly to take Grif's cock. Suddenly, he doesn't care that he's not in control, not if Grif is going to grab him by the waist and pound him senseless. _Oh my god this is feels amazing, anal sex is amazing why isn't he doing this all the time?_

He tries to moan, but the air is being punched out of lungs with every thrust. His prostate is going to be _dust_ after this, he just knows it.

And then...

It stops?

He doesn't feel Grif pulling out first, just the lack of stars he's supposed to be seeing while having the best sex of his life. His head is too busy reeling at being wrenched from the over-stimulation to no stimulation at all. Did Grif die or something?

No, he's just leaning back against the closet door, red-faced and panting harshly. 

"Uh, Grif?" Simmons can see that he's still erect, and painfully so.

"I'm done," says Grif in between gulps of air. "This is too much work, I can't do it." 

Simmons has danced between desperately horny and violently angry far too much today. "Are you fucking serious?"

"We've been fucking for _hours,_ Simmons. This is the most exercise I've done in my life."

Of course Grif's laziness is the one thing stronger than the temple. It might have given Simmons inhuman endurance, but Grif is so unhealthy that it just bumped him up to regular person levels of fitness. And _of course_ he decides to give up just when the sex goes to great to absolutely mind-blowing. Fucking typical. Always finding an excuse to dodge physical activity, sex included. Well, he's too keyed up to insult him further, that high he's been completely immersed in moments ago was fading alarmingly fast. He climbs onto Grif's lap, and without ceremony sinks all the way down.

Grif hisses, "Fuck, warn a guy, will ya?" 

Simmons only hums back, eyes closed as he savors the feeling of being full again. In this position he can do so much more than before, he'll be in control of his own pleasure, of Grif's. This is what he prefers. Except, "I don't know how- I mean, I've never done this before."

Large, warm hands settle on the curve of his ass, he responds by putting his hands on Grif's shoulders. "You're supposed to move, it's not that hard." 

"Like this?" And he tentatively rocks forward.

Grif inhales sharply, "Yeah like that, do that." 

So Simmons does. Slowly and clumsy with inexperience, he rolls his hips. He has no idea what he's doing, but Grif is hypnotized by the movement of his hips, and his soft murmurs of encouragement send shivers down Simmons' spine. More confident, he picks up the pace, shifting around to find that perfect angle from before. "Aren't you going to move?" He asks.

But Grif only rests his arm behind his head. "Nah." 

Simmons huffs, "Unbelievable." Leave it to Grif to drag them through their standard dynamic no matter the situation: Simmons putting in all the effort while he sits on his fat ass and does nothing. He's smiling in that smug way he always does whenever he's tricked Simmons into doing all his work for him. Simmons knows for sure that Grif wasn't so exhausted that he just _had_ to pull out as they were rapidly approaching orgasm, he just didn't want to do work while there was a perfectly capable Richard Simmons available to do it for him. "You're- _oh!-_ fucking unbelievable, you know that?"

"Pretty sure I'm fucking you." He grins.

"Pretty sure you're not doing anything." Simmons says back.

He doesn't go any faster than languid rocking. Grif isn't pushing for more, and Simmons is climbing steadily as he is. It might be down to it being his first time, but he can't hit his sweet spot, only slightly graze it. It's fine, he can last longer like this, and he can focus on Grif's roaming hands, gripping his thighs, squeezing encouragingly, running up and down his torso, and brushing past his nipples. He caresses with more curiosity than affection, because the opportunity is there to put his hands somewhere they've never been before. Simmons does the same, tracing his fingers along Grif's skin grafts, along the edges of skin that used to be his, so pale in contrast. Grif had complained for so long about having to use sunscreen for the first time in his life because Simmons was a pasty white boy, and Simmons had argued back that he should have been using sunscreen anyway because he can still burn even if his skin is naturally darker. 

He runs his hand down the scar on Grif's chest, the one that Sarge gave him when he cut him open and stuffed all of Simmons' organs inside. He gives Grif so much shit about his diet, his smoking habits, always chiding him for not taking care of himself and the organs he so kindly donated. It seems he is only allowed to care about Grif by proxy. 

Grif has worked his way to the left-side of his neck, where he feels the hard metal underneath synthetic skin. Simmons doesn't have feeling in that part of his body, he only feels the pressure of Grif's hand, not the texture of his calluses, not the warmth. With his thumb he brushes along the seam of Simmons' face where metal meets flesh, along his jaw and up his cheekbone, finishing just before his eyebrow starts. No one touches his face, not like this. Simmons can't bring himself to interrupt, even when their eyes meet and he sees something unreadable in Grif's eyes, terrifying and exciting all at once. 

Simmons begins to ride him harder. Not faster, _harder._ He's tightening as he moves up and tensing his core as he fucks back down because he likes the way Grif gasps out his name. Grif, for all his insistence of sitting back and letting Simmons do everything, actually leans forward and catches Simmons' lips in a brief kiss, before working his way down the human part of his jaw and to his neck. Simmons shudders and tilts his head to give him better access. They're getting lost in pleasure again, but not like the other times when urgency flooded their brains until only mind-consuming passion remained. Simmons feels more in control now, although the temple's influence is still niggling in his subconscious, it feels like he's having sex the way he would be without alien aphrodisiac _._

"Grif, touch me." He moans. Grif obeys so quickly, wrapping one hand around Simmons' dick and stroking it languorously. Simmons whimpers at the gentle touch.

"I'm close, Simmons." Grif says roughly into his neck.

"Me too." 

But he doesn't speed up. He changes nothing, even though it's almost torture, even though it would be so easy to slam down on Grif's cock with reckless abandon and gracelessly throw them both over the edge. He chooses to do it this way, _his way._ Slow and intense and in control, and beneath him Grif is letting him, making no demands other than " _Don't stop._ "

_Don't fall without me._

He drags them both to the edge inch by fevered inch, until they teeter on the verge and the space between them melts to nothing. And it's with his way that Simmons brings them to toe-curling, leg-shaking, breathtaking climax, it's descent as slow and molten as the build-up. Arms wrapped tightly around each other, they ride it out together. 

They don't let go even after the final wave passes. When Grif softens and slides out of Simmons, he sprawls on Grif's lap, boneless and sated. Grif lets him. The thought of separating doesn't exist.

Twelve hours after getting locked in the closet, Grif and Simmons fall, finally, into deep, dreamless sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is my first time writing an explicit sex scene so feedback is appreciated


	4. Everyone's still mad at Tucker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath  
> feat. walks of shame, following through on threats, and gross abuse of presidential power.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had too much fucking fun writing this chapter.

Simmons is jolted from peaceful slumber when the closet door propping him and Grif suddenly slides open. They spill out onto the cold metal floor of the hallway still entangled. Underneath him, Grif groans in discomfort at the exposure of the outside world, much like he normally would when someone disrupts one of his naps. Simmons is having a hard time getting his bearings himself. He shivers at the crisp air-conditioned breeze and the sharp flourescent glare reflecting off the walls and floor. He feels like someone has shoved a fistful of cotton in his mouth and replaced all his limbs with long strings of cooked spaghetti.

“Captain Dexter Grif and Captain Richard Simmons are accounted for. Welcome back, captains!” Came a cheery voice from far away.

“Hngmrfm.” Is all he manages in response. Grif makes a noise that sounded a lot like ‘ _GerroffmeSimmons’_ but if he wants Simmons to move, he’s going to have to actively shove him off, because Simmons’ body is not being a team player at the moment.

The voice hums pleasantly, tapping away in what Simmons recognizes as a data pad. It sounds closer, directly above him actually. His brain is catching up. He cranes his head up.

“Dr. Grey?” He says weakly, there’s a person standing next to her. “ _Caboose?_ ” 

“Hello!”

Grif shuffles to cover his eyes with his arm, “Fuck off, Caboose.” he mumbles.

“The magic door said to find a friend so I found Freckles but then the door started crying and told me to go away so I did but when it stopped crying I found another friend and now I’m playing nurse!”

SImmons is not sure it is possible for him to ever fully process what Caboose says at any given time, not even at full brain capacity.

He feels a scratchy fabric cover his body, Caboose has gently covered him and Grif with a blanket, and placed two water bottles and ration bars next to them. 

“Excellent job, nurse Caboose.” Grey says, producing a small candy for her 'assistant'. She turns to Simmons. “My scans show your vitals are within range. You are, however, moderately dehydrated! Please make sure to replenish your fluids immediately.”

So Simmons does just that. He awkwardly rolls off Grif, taking the blanket with him, and gulps down the water gratefully. He had no idea how thirsty he was until Grey mentioned it, the temple had clouded his self-preservation instincts to the point of neglect, so he couldn’t be _distracted_ by things deemed menial, like eating and drinking.

Grif makes no attempt to move, “Piss off, lady.” 

“Captain Grif,” Grey begins in that terrifyingly perky tone, “I’ve got an entire planet’s worth of patients to examine, I don’t have time for back chat! So if you don’t do as I say, I’ll have Caboose shove a tube down your throat and pour the liquid down it myself. I can promise you, it will be _very invasive!”_ Next to her, Caboose perks up at the possibility of another treat.

Grif is smart enough to yield. “Alright you crazy bitch, no tubes.” He grumbles. 

The rest of the examination goes smoothly. Since they are both conscious and not grievously injured, Grey tells them it is not necessary for them to take up space in the infirmary. Instead, she hands them both a strip of paper with the date and time of their complementary STD check courtesy of Chorus’ newly established Safe Sex and Family Planning Healthcare Act. 

Kimball sure works fast.

Then Grey is gone, and Caboose trots behind her like a puppy. Simmons sobers up quickly. Hot shame washes over him, as if Grey and Caboose had walked in on them during the act. He considers himself lucky that it was those two who found him and Grif. Grey is a professional, and legally not allowed to judge, and Caboose is...well, an idiot. If it had been anyone else, the gossip would have warranted Simmons a dramatic action scene where he commandeers a Pelican, flees civilization, and lives the rest of his days as a jungle hermit. He shudders to think what he would have done if it had been any of the other Reds and Blues, like Tucker, or Donut, or, _sweet merciful gods_ , Sarge. Death would have to be the only logical solution.

Any one of them could still walk around the corner and spot them. Simmons has to get up and put distance between himself and the stupid closet before that happened. He looks over to Grif and...he’s fallen asleep again. Whatever. It’s not his job to make sure Grif isn’t naked and sleeping in a hallway of a military base, he’s sure as shit not about to drag the guy to their room as he is, not in this condition. Every muscle in his body is protesting from overuse, and he’s sore in places he has never been sore before. He feels an uncomfortable wetness between his legs and mortifyingly realises that Grif’s cum is still-

He needs a shower. Immediately.

The walk of shame back to his room is lessened somewhat by the fact that everyone around him is currently going through the same thing as he is. Simmons sees people wobble out like newborn deer out of rooms, closets, pantries, vehicles, ventilation shafts ( _how?)_ , and practically any nook and cranny capable of containing at least two human beings. They’re all glassy eyed, in various stages of undress, and reluctant to meet anyone else’s eye, which suits Simmons just fine. 

He welcomes harsh spray of the water, with the temperature just high enough that it’s uncomfortable. Simmons scrubs himself down thoroughly. He wants to get the events of the temple off him as much as he wants to be clean of the sweat and cum, but his body and mind are working together to bring him highlights of the last twelve hours. The slide of skin, the scrape of teeth, his name being whispered in reverence. 

Thick fingers penetrating him.

“Fuck.” Simmons grits out. He’s not supposed to _enjoy_ cleaning out his ass, his stupid body is about to pop its thirteenth boner in as many hours, and that can’t be healthy. 

He blasts cold water instead to get the job done as quickly as possible, and decides to brave the captain’s lounge for coffee. 

\---o0o---

Typical of his luck, the last two people he wants to see are in the lounge when he enters. 

“Simmons!” beams Donut from his chair.

“‘Sup dude!” greets Tucker.

Simmons grumbles something to Donut, pointedly ignores Tucker, and makes his way to the counter where the pot of coffee is. Neither Donut nor Tucker are wearing armor like he is, Donut is in civvies and Tucker is only wearing his lower half, so he can see that both of their necks are covered in marks. Donut, who Simmons is convinced is physically unable to feel shame, is even sitting on one of those special pillows doctors give people who have broken their tailbone. Of course Donut has one of those. Donut probably asked Grey and got one because he’s _Donut_ and it’s not weird if he asks. Simmons can’t ask and, and even if he got his hands on one, using a pillow like that in public would invite intrusive questions. 

“I was just telling Tucker here what I got up to during the temple!” 

“I’m sure I can guess what you did, Donut.” Simmons says tightly, getting a mug from the cupboard.

“And then some!” laughs Tucker, “My man Donut got laid with a capital ‘L’!” Then he high-fives Donut like the dumb frat boy he is. 

“What about you, Simmons.” Donut asks lightly, “Did you have fun? Did you find someone _special?_ ”

He fumbles the mug. _Why yes, Donut, I was recently sodomized by my best friend. Thanks for asking._ “No.”

They don’t believe him, but it’s none of their business what he did during the activation of the temple. He's having trouble coming to terms with it by himself, he doesn't need anyone else's opinion about it on top of that. In classic Simmons fashion, he's happy to bury any and all questions and feelings deep under busy work. He should go and help Grey with her enormous task of damage control. He'll deal with his own problems later, when no one is prying into his sex life.

There's one particular problem he can't avoid, he can’t drink without taking off his helmet first, and if he does Tucker and Donut will see his own hickeys and bruises, because Grif is apparently a _biter_. Add that to the list of things he could have not known to die happy. He sighs, it's fine. They'll know he spent time with someone, but they won't know who, that's something he can deal with. It's a fair exchange: a bit of his dignity for caffeine. 

Whistles and cheers erupt immediately from the two idiots, which Simmons ignores in favor of sipping his drink and imagining punching Tucker in the dick. God, they're so immature. _I knew it!_ _Who's the lucky girl, Simmons? You're officially a man now! Was it your hot lieutenant? I gotta message Grif!_

Simmons turns for that last one. "What?"

Tucker reaches for his data pad, "Grif bet me fifty bucks that you wouldn't score even with the temple active. Oh man, I gotta tell him right now, he'll _flip_!"

"Yeah, you do that." Simmons deadpans, his tone saturated with irony. He thinks about punching Tucker in the dick again. 

But Tucker doesn't get a chance to send a message, because right then the door the captain's lounge slams open and there stands Carolina, fully armored and furious. Her eyes scan the room and if this were any other time, Simmons would be shitting himself in fear, but he's unfazed now. He's not the target. Tucker yelps and flies out of the couch.

"Carolina, no, please wait! Wait wait waitwaitwait-"

The Freelancer reels back and slams a spectacular left cross directly to Tucker's groin. 

"I think it, she does it." Simmons muses to himself as Donut winces sympathetically. Carolina regards Tucker, whose gone fetal at her feet, seemingly deciding that one hit is enough, and leaves without a word. Simmons thinks she could have gotten a few kicks in, he's wearing armor after all, but beggars can't be choosers. He finishes his coffee and puts his helmet back on. 

"Quit being a baby." Simmons snaps, "This is better than her actually killing you like she threatened." 

"Are you sure?" Tucker wheezes. 

At that moment, Sarge walks through the door. "Ah Simmons, Donut, the temple didn't kill you? Excellent!" Sarge is also in his armor, and Simmons thanks every god he knows for that. And that he's put his own helmet on so Sarge wouldn't have to see the desolate wasteland that is his neck. "It was pandemonium out there, I barely made it out alive!" He looks down, "I see Carolina was here."

"Did you get up to much, Sarge?" asks Donut. 

"Son," Sarge starts gruffly, "There are some aspects of a man's life that he must keep private. I, for one, don't want to know about any of your endeavors, salacious as they might be, and I don't expect you to chase me for sordid details of my own!" 

"I second that!" pipes in Simmons, "Let's never talk about this or anything related to this ever again." 

Tucker is finally on his feet again, "Red team is so boring." he groans shakily.

Sarge's tone drops lower. "By the way, Aquaman, Dr. Grey wanted me to pass on a message." And he slugs Tucker right in the babymaker.

Simmons' days is starting to look better, "Excellent form, Sarge." He steps over Tucker and goes to find the good doctor.

\---o0o---

Grif is just arriving at his quarters when the data pad on his bed rings. 

He's filthy, even by his standards. That fucker Simmons left him on the floor of the hallway buck-ass nude and starving instead of dragging him back to their room like he was supposed to. Talk about hitting and quitting. Worst one-night stand ever. One- _day_ stand? Whatever. His _everything_ hurts, he should tell Grey he pulled a muscle and request sick leave for the next six months. That's how long it takes for muscles to be un-pulled, right? He should do some research so he can make it sound convincing. But...

His data pad is ringing. Someone is calling him. Who the fuck wants to talk to him right after a planet-wide orgy? He's in no mood to entertain, he's got sex-related injuries to fake and memories to repress. 

He reads the caller ID and does a double-take. Kimball? He really doesn't want to talk to anyone at the moment, but he can see he's got three missed calls from her already, he feels like if he screens the president there might be consequences in his immediate future, so he answers. "Uh, hello?"

It's not a video call, thank god. Grif already struggles with self-grooming, so he can't imagine what he must look like after 12 hours of alien-aided marathon sex. "Captain Grif." comes Kimball's curt greeting, "Thank you for taking my call."

"No problem?" Grif is so confused. Kimball doesn't _like_ him, she has said so explicitly many times. To his face. It's one of the reasons Sarge likes her so much.

"You must be wondering why I called," she sighs, "Honestly, I'm having second thoughts. It's entirely inappropriate of me to ask, but I feel like you are the only one among the high-ranking officers who could follow through." 

Grif wonders if the temple could still be affecting some people. Then he wonders if it's technically treason reject a sexual proposition from the president. He'd have to steal a Pelican and live on the run for the rest of his life. 

"I need to you to discipline Captain Tucker." 

He blinks. "Come again?"

"While his actions aren't technically _illegal_ , because laws on using the temples don't exist, our resources and personnel were already stretched thin. Captain Tucker's decision to activate the Temple of Procreation may have caused unprecedented and catastrophic damage to our reconstruction efforts. I need to make sure that he receives a clear message on behalf of me and the people of Chorus that his actions are destructive and therefore unwelcome. I would do it myself but I'm a little-" 

"Wait, hold on." This might just be the best conversation he has ever had with another human being. "Are you asking me to _hit_ Tucker?" 

"If you think that would be the appropriate punishment." Kimball replies carefully.

"In the dick?"

A pause.

"...preferably." _Fuck. Yeah._ "I understand he's your friend and I apologize for being so out of-"

"No, stop talking, roger _fucking_ wilco, Madam President. But also, I'm going to need this order on paper." So he can frame it and put it on his wall. 

"Fine. Whatever. Kimball out."

Grif all but _skips_ to the shower. He can't believe he has presidential permission to give Tucker testicular torsion. That asshole deserves it. It's his fault Grif had fantastic closet sex with Simmons for half a day, which is terrible because he has to deal with the untold consequences of the aforementioned sex while Tucker will only feel the temporary, albeit nauseating, pain of Grif curb-stomping his balls for like, thirty minutes. He and Simmons are going to be avoiding each other for weeks until the events of the temple are one hundred percent smothered. Which is easy for Grif, he's already blaming his actions, words, and feelings entirely on the temple and absconding himself from all accountability. The aliens made them do it. Especially right at the end, when Simmons climbed on top of Grif and gave him the ride of his life. When they had that almost-moment tracing each other's scars. When they held on for dear life and Grif thought he genuinely died as the world's most intense orgasm wracked their bodies. It was all aliens. 

The fact that he's now in the shower with a hand around his cock, thinking about how Simmons has a praise kink and whose moans could raise the dead? Aliens. Aliens and Tucker. He needs to go punch Tucker right now, immediately. Kimball told him to do it.

And he can't go against his President.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate title for this chapter: "Red vs Blue Nutshot Power-Hour." or "Tucker gets directly and indirectly punched in the dick by every woman he knows."
> 
> I hope you enjoyed my first ever PWP.  
> Your comments and kudos add years to my life. I appreciate every single one of them.


End file.
